"The district was goodly. We had intended merely to walk through it; but when we reached Falmouth, which is its gateway, we were held in spell by its evening beauty. On the waters of the dark harbour small sailing craft rocked gently to and fro. Above each swayed a masthead light; and in the dusk those lights were like candles burning above obscure religious shapes. The grave surge of the sea moved amid the grave beauty of the ships, inclining them this way and that in silent slow obeisance under the stars and under the thin crescent of the moon. The next morning was as beautiful as the evening had been. We knew at once that we should not pass on as we had from so many other places. On the contrary, we said that we would go through the gateway of Falmouth and know all we might of what the district held. For me it was adventurous, but Marion had been there before. The sea sweeps into a magnificent harbour, and off the harbour run broad arms of water – now blue, now green – that feel their way deep into the recesses of the hills; and themselves in many cases throw off other arms that go in countless ramifications through the countryside. All are subject to the sea, so that the surge and sigh of waters governed by the steadfast law of tides draw music through all the hollows of the hills. Great ships go up and anchor deep in the heart of the country; and at every turning one may come upon an inland village with a sweep of shingle beach, a tiny jetty, and a marine flavour. It was evident that this was the ideal place to live. No motor-car of char-à-banc disturbed the quiet; to get from place to place, if one did not want to walk twenty miles, one used a boat to cross the blue shining fiords. A twilight doors one came suddenly on old twilight men, telescope to eye, following the fortune of vessels they had known more intimately. In sunny gardens palms grew to a splendid height, and the intense colours of the sea, seen between their stems, gave the landscape a sub-tropical illusion. Then there was the blue and green transparent water of the sea and the creeks inviting the body to its cold embrace; and there were farms where old memories might be revived of “three-decker” teas – bread and butter, jam and cream piled on top of one another. Not least of the charms was the name of the district – Roseland." Howard Spring, writing in a short lived paper called ‘Voices’. Quoted by Marion Spring, his wife, in her memoir ’Memories and Gardens’.